


The Hungry Grief of Lucius Malfoy

by miriams-darkfics (small_miriam)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse of Power, But this is not how a widower should grieve, Darkfic, Displaced grief, Dubious Consent, F/M, Lucius Malfoy Really Misses Narcissa, Rape, Stalking, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25925023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_miriam/pseuds/miriams-darkfics
Summary: Since the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger can't shake intrusive thoughts.  But when Lucius Malfoy finally gets parole, she can't seem to help bumping into him at every turn - and the voice in her head grows louder, and louder.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy
Comments: 45
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This is a darkfic that involves dubious consent, stalking, and abuse of power (and mentions of Child Sexual Abuse). If these things are upsetting to you, please take care of yourself + your mental health and click away from this fic! ❤️
> 
> Please mind the tags. Enjoy~

“...and on that basis, Mr Lucius Malfoy will serve the remainder of his five year sentence at the Wiltshire family estate known as Malfoy Manor. ”

The Wizengamot rose to their feet. 

“We grant the petition for parole.”

Sitting in the public viewing gallery, Hermione saw Mr Malfoy stand, flanked by Draco Malfoy on his left and his lawyer on his right, each of their backs ramrod straight. They had even managed to fit Lucius Malfoy in proper robes before the proceedings to make sure he looked every part of the respectable pureblood and less like an Azkaban escapee. In the media gallery, Rita Skeeter pursed her lips and directed a young wizard holding the camera before it flashed, catching Lucius Malfoy halfway through his bow to the Wizengamot as they began to file out. 

Someone at the back of the crowd coughed quietly. 

The deep queasy feeling that had weighed in Hermione’s stomach stuttered into stillness. Distantly, she felt someone squeeze her elbow and turned to see Harry in the seat beside her, waiting for a reply. 

“Pardon, Harry?” Hermione asked. A surly witch in the row in front of them turned back and hushed. 

“I said I was wondering if this was the closure you wanted.” He whispered, and looked at her for a long moment. 

“I think so.” She raised her chin to feel self assured, but underneath her jumper sleeve she was picking at her own nailbed. “It was the right thing to do.”

“What, to testify in favour of his parole?” Harry shook his head in careful disbelief. “If anyone deserves a clean conscience today, it’s you.” 

The Wizengamot had filed out. The Malfoy men, lead by their lawyer and two Aurors, were led away from the stand and down past the gallery to the exit, hushed whispers and craning necks following them as their shoes clicked against the stone floor. Draco Malfoy’s stare was determinedly fixed on the door, but Lucius Malfoy’s icy gaze slid impassively over the crowd as he walked, narrowing briefly when they met her gaze. Hermione darted her eyes to the empty witness stand as her stomach flipped. 

_He loathes me._

Nervousness writhed again in her stomach. When the heavy doors rattled closed behind them, the public gallery erupted into chatter. 

“That was tense.” Harry rubbed his neck. 

She sighed and stood as the crowd began to make towards the exit, pausing as some wizarding dignitaries from mainland Europe filed past. Typical. Even after two years in Azkaban, Hermione figured that Lucius Malfoy would still have friends in high places. Was that what prison sentences were to these pureblood elites? Pauses on a comfortable life that sat ready to warmly receive them once justice was done?

“Yes, well. It was necessary. The war needs to be put behind us for good. And besides, without the dementors at Azkaban, Malfoy Manor won’t be much of a change of scenery for him anyway,” Hermione said. 

“Bloody grim place,” Harry agreed. 

The surly woman who had hushed Hermione gave her a filthy look. 

As expected, the moment Harry and Hermione made it out of the doors there was a gauntlet of public well wishers and reporters, clamouring for the attention of both Harry Potter, who avoided public proceedings as a strict rule, and Hermione Granger, who had encouraged a flurry of speculations when she‘d supported Mr Malfoy’s parole petition. 

“Miss Granger, did the Malfoys pay for you-“

“Are you in contact with the Malfoy family, Miss-“

“Mr Potter! Will you attend all death eaters seeking parole-“

“Could we make our way, please,” Harry gritted out, pulling Hermione behind him. Hermione slipped behind him in the crowd, concentrating on grasping his forearm, but as the crowd swirled, intrusive thoughts jammed into her mind - her constant companion since the Battle for Hogwarts.

_Simply vile._

_No dignity, these half-bloods and blood traitors._

Hermione flinched behind Harry. 

Internalised blood-supremacy, her psychologist at Saint Mungo’s had called it. It was upsetting but unsurprising given the torture and violence she’d experienced, but it still jarred her from time to time. After two years, she tried her best to ignore them, but they occasionally still got under her skin - especially when they were about blood status. No matter what spells or potions given to her by the battery of eager healers at Saint Mungo’s, the thoughts never went away. 

Whenever she was stressed or tired or surprised, she grit her teeth and focused very intently on whatever she was looking at. Which, at that moment, was the back of Harry’s head.

 _Half-blood_ , the voice sniffed.

Hermione’s fist balled at her side. 

Once they’d emerged from the crowd and snaked their way swiftly to a side corridor on their way to the floo network, Harry pulled her to his side and they paused. 

“How _are_ you?” He asked.

“It’s good. I feel calm.” Her mouth felt dry and she forced a smile. “I just need the loo.”

Harry didn’t seem convinced, but she left him with her handbag and ducked away. It took a few minutes to find one in the turns and twists of the Ministry, but once she found one near the registry, she ducked in and sat down, seat lid down, and pulled her hands across her face. 

Closure. 

What foolish idea it was to think this could settle her guilt. She felt her breath shallowing and she knitted her hands through her hair, feeling them tremble along her scalp.

All she could do was replay the final moments of the Battle of Hogwarts again in her head. Running past Draco and Lucius Malfoy, wandless and begging for help over Narcissa’s bleeding body. Hesitating in horror at the blood on their hands, and shirking away anyway - reasoning that she needed to find Ron, and Neville, and anyone else that wasn’t the two Malfoy death eaters frantically pressing pressure on the massive wound across Narcissa Malfoy’s neck- reading her obituary-

 _Clink_.

Her keys landed with a jingle on the floor. 

She blinked a few times, getting her bearings back, and picked them up. There was crack across the ceramic keychain bauble that Luna had given her for her twentieth birthday. Hermione huffed.

Get it together. 

On instinct, she dragged her hand across her cheek. No tears. She nodded. Good. She checked her reflection in the mirror quickly and headed back out into the corridor, gaze fixed on trying to pull Luna’s cracked bauble off the keychain-- 

And stumbled straight into Lucius Malfoy, who whirled around.

“How unexpected,” he said, voice pointed and clipped. Even two years in a cell hadn’t taken away any of his blend of dignified derision, with one brow arched as he looked down his nose at her. His lawyer looked over to them from the registry desk with wariness. “An act of charity from the Muggleborn of the Golden Trio. ” 

“It wasn’t charity. I just told the truth.” She folded her arms and felt her mouth harden. “It matters to _some_ of us more than others.” 

“How... simple.” He looked down her jeans and sneakers with a soft look of disgust. “Supporting a parole petition because it’s the _truth_. I rather wondered if it was a guilty conscience.” 

His icy grey stare drove into her eyes. Anxious thoughts dragged themselves forward, demanding attention.

_Why didn’t I wear robes befitting the Wizengamot?_

_Why am I carrying keys like a groundskeeper?_

She tore her eyes away from him and scoffed in unadulterated rage. 

His hand snapped out and yanked her chin forward - his gaze was no longer narrow.

 _How unbecoming_ , the chittering voice in her head sniffed. Finally, it said something useful for once. 

“How unbecoming,” she bit out, and she stormed past him. 

“Sir,” Mr Malfoy’s lawyer intervened. “Is everything in order?”

“Hermione?” Harry called from the hallway. She darted over to Harry and they found the floo network, him shuffling her first and following closely behind, and they landed in the dusty silence of Grimmauld Place. 

A tentative silence draws out between her and Harry. The sound of children playing on the streets carries up, and she looks resolutely out the window. 

“What did Lucius Malfoy say to you?”

“Nothing,” she said, irritation gnawing at her. “It was nothing.”

Harry snorts and squeezes her shoulder. “Being a Malfoy git, then?”

She sighed. “What’s new?”

Lucius Malfoy was out of Azkaban. 

Nobody deserved Azkaban. That was the only reason why she did it. 

She could stop dreaming about the Battle of Hogwarts now, surely. 

______________________

“My thanks,” Lucius said, taking the file from the healer’s outstretched hand. 

_Hermione J Granger_ glinted on the label on the front.

“My pleasure. And our gratitude, again, for your generous support of Saint Mungo’s initiatives.” 

Lucius smiled at the bowing healer. “Topsy will see you out.”

As the house elf ushered the healer along, Lucius traced a long finger down the file. It was fat. Very fat indeed for a young witch her age. 

It had irritated him to no end, her testimony that he effectively didn’t participate in the battle where the Dark Lord fell. This was widely known - it was impossible to miss - but with no witnesses in his favour, he was sentenced to seven years as many other Death Eaters were. In the fugue of shock, having lost his darling Narcissa, it hadn’t mattered. What was seven years, compared to a lifetime as a widower without sweet Narcissa?

When the Mudblood supported his petition for parole, he felt the highest suspicion and derision for her. 

Her Gringotts report had shown very little of interest. The same could be said of the Ministry log of her floo movements (“Only collated for her safety, of course, you understand-” the Department of Magical Transport clerk had insisted, eagerly flitting through her dog-eared file). All he was able to ascertain from the Department of Law Enforcement was that she was employed there as an arithmancer, deployed for decommissioning unsafe prehistoric artifacts - particularly bronze-age magical objects. 

But Saint Mungo’s always had a desperate need for funding. 

“House elf,” he said idly, spreading the file across his writing desk, “wine.”

He flicked through her most recent health check. 

Healthy weight. Normal diet. Blood tests normal. No challenges performing magic. Several benign injuries from apprenticing as an arithmancer, no lasting effects. No contact with muggle parents. Shared residence with Harry and Ginny Potter. 

Not sexually active.

His mouth twisted in revulsion and he tossed the file aside, picking up another stack headed by the statement:

Mind Healer Consultation.

His finger traced along his jaw as he settled into the notes. There was something off about the mudblood’s thoughts. Although only able to achieve the most surface level legilimency, a brief skim of her thoughts in the hallway had struck him as unusual.

Some of her thoughts were altogether uncharacteristic, considering her nauseating earnestness. 

He picked through her file.

Intrusive thoughts. 

_Aversion to muggles - disgust with blood traitors - discomfort at mixed-blood wedding -_

How shameful. The famous mudblood lacked a stomach for her own blood. Lucius smirked. The rest of the repetitive appointments chattered away at the same themes. Shame for her upbringing. Her muggle garments and mannerisms. 

Guilt that she hadn’t paused to heal Narcissa.

But it was a single line that attracted his attention the most. 

_Dreams - clipping flowers from garden - peonies._

He flicked through to another consultation, scowling. 

At the bottom: _Recurring dream - arranging peonies on balcony._

And another: _Peonies dream._

His pupils tightened into pinpricks. His fingers lingered over the line and his gut twisted, his breath caught in his mouth. Below the window of his study, peonies swayed in the wind, and he felt breathless.

Narcissa.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Please bear in mind the updated tags. This story will contain brief, non-graphic scenes that refer to child sexual abuse. In this chapter, it's the first sections in italics that is a dream sequence.

_Hot panting over Hermione curdles her stomach._

_Her eyes rove around the room, but the pitch black darkness leaves only the outline of high ceiling plasterwork and a black figure above her bed. She swallows hard. With a jolt, she feels a hand sliding beneath the sheet, and fingers trace the arch of her calf. Fear bolts her still in place._

_“Gently now. You’ll wake your sister.” The deep voice shakes, like he’s running, or breathless. His other arm shifts beneath his own robes, and the rustles are the only other thing she can hear in the room. She clutches the blanket tight to her chest, staring in fright at the ceiling and hearing her own panting in fear._

_“Please_. _“ she whispers, and pushes herself up on her elbows. Her voice is different. Squeaky. Enunciated. Maybe it’s the terror seizing her throat. “Please-“_

_“Quiet. Lie back now.”_

_His fingers, up her night skirt now, squirm against her knickers. Hermione lies back down and heaves in a stuttering sob. “I really n-need the ladies room first, p-please-“_

-Hermione jerked awake. 

_Lucius_ , she thought miserably. _Where is Lucius?_

She twisted her fists in the blankets as her senses slowly crawled back. While her heart rate came down, the ceiling of 12 Grimmauld place stared down at her. Not that it had plasterwork, thank god, but it did have cobwebs. She dropped her head back on the pillow, dragging her hands across her face. Sweat clung a couple of curls against her forehead - she already felt a thumping headache threatening to burst into a migraine - and the sun was nowhere near up. 

Another disaster of a night's sleep, then.

 _The house elf has truly let things go_ , she thought, looking up at the spiderwebs. 

Hermione clenched her teeth. Kreacher had a name.

Rolling over to her bedside table, she rummaged blindly in the draw until she found a potion bottle.

_Glug-_

The last of the bottle dripped into her mouth. Frustration flickered at the back of her mind. It was going to be hard finding another provider willing to sell Dreamless Sleep to her without reporting it to the Ministry. 

Refusing to ruminate on the nightmare again, she whipped her legs up tight below her body and squeezed her thighs together. The hum of wary fear at the back of her mind was a mere holdover from the war. She was safe. She was _safe_. Nightmares from her overactive imagination were hardly even the worst part of her condition, and at least easily fixed with potions, so there was no point feeling sorry for herself. At worst, she would have to portkey to Germany to find another seller. Hardly the end of the world. She’d just have to remember to banish the bottle in the morning so Harry and Ginny wouldn’t see.

And remember that Lucius Malfoy did not give one whit about her. Or her about him.

_Why do I live here?_

_Such dated wallpapering._

Hermione rolled over and huffed into the pillow. Nobody cared about dated wallpapering. 

* * *

“Feeling better with the parole hearing behind you?”

Ginny clinked a cup of hot tea down on the dining table in front of Hermione. It had been three days since her and Harry went to the Wizengamot. Kreacher still really didn’t have a good grasp on edible food, but Hermione had taken time to compliment his fruit-cutting when he served pears that looked positively murdered ( _-ghastly, ill-mannered house elf_ ). She served herself toast instead once he’d trotted up the warped stairs. 

“Well, I don’t have to think about it anymore.”

_Thank goodness. He is home where he belongs._

She hated the joy that sprang up in her chest at the thought. Yes, free to prance around his manor being a bigot, Hermione thought, chomping angrily into toast. Ginny carefully eyed her trembling hands. 

“Still not sleeping, then?”

Hermione put down her toast. “Just war dreams. I feel fine, thank you. ”

“No, it’s not that.” Ginny sat across from her at the table. “The Ministry wrote to ask if you’re having any unusual symptoms. Connected to work.”

Hermione internally sighed. Ah, yes - the preconditions of working as a pre-history artifact arithmancer. Ministry regulations required she live at her designated residence, 12 Grimmauld Place, because it had sufficient wards to protect her from any lingering magic from artifacts. Then there was the work-mandated healer’s appointment at Saint Mungo’s every month to make sure she was psychologically cleared for work. She was only foolish enough to tell them about her internalised blood supremacy at the beginning, and the occasional dreams about the final battle.

There was no way to adequately explain the chittering voice in her head, or the _other_ dreams -

_Or Lucius._

“It’s fine. Thanks for asking. I think it’s just the regular stress,” Hermione smiled tightly. “Nothing sinister.”

“You know,” Ginny paused. “Harry and I both had nightmares after the wars, too.”

 _Blood-traitor_ -

“I know-“ Hermione snapped, cutting off the thought. She gritted her teeth silently and forced a smile. It wasn’t the war dreams that snapped her awake through the nights, but Ginny couldn’t know that. “I know it was hard for everyone. I’m trying my utter best to move on, and I-“ she checked her watch. “I’ll be late for work. I need to go.” She picked up her bag and made to leave.

“Saint Mungo’s called.” Ginny said flatly. Hermione lingered in the doorway for a moment. “They firecalled me and Harry while you were at work yesterday.”

“Is… everything alright?” 

“They wanted to know if you’ve been relying on potions again. Or if you’d had any irregular changes in behaviour.”

“So they called you two.” Hermione’s eyes narrowed. 

“I know. The property and the wards are under our name, so they have to follow us up because of your arithmancy registration.” Ginny’s mouth hardened. “I told them you’re fine.”

Hermione’s grip on the doorframe eased. “Thanks, Ginny.”

“But you aren’t.” She tapped the lip of her cup of tea for a few seconds. “I really admire how you’re coping without Dreamless Sleep. I can’t pretend to know what’s happening, or why you thought getting Lucius Malfoy out on parole would help. But I support you. So I thought I’d let you know.”

“I appreciate it. I really do.” The tension in Hermione’s shoulders softened. “I’m seeing the healer later this week, I’ll sort it out.”

Ginny dipped her nose into the Daily Prophet. “Good luck with that,” she said behind the newspaper. There was something in her voice, but Hermione didn’t linger to follow it up.

_Terrible manners. No conception of privacy._

Hermione shook her head at the thought, but couldn’t suppress a twitch of amusement when she leapt through the floo to work. 

* * *

She stared at the parchment in shock. Panic crept up her throat.

“ _Malfoy Manor_.”

But that panic combined with a sick thrill that sat in her belly.

“Well,” her manager said, standing over her desk. “The estate has agreed very generously to cover a number of expenses for the arithmancy division in return. And we aren’t legally able to decline. The artifacts have to be decommissioned.”

Excitement tingled through her, but she gritted her teeth and cut the feeling off as soon as she could, dropping the parchment into her work desk draw. Whatever her guilty conscience nattered on at, going to Malfoy Manor of all places was not a good idea. Lucius Malfoy had stared so loathsomely at her outside the Wizengamot that it made her sick to her stomach to see his cold, grey glare.

_But I can make it better. Can’t I?_

“You’re the only available pre-history arithmancer available currently,” he continued. “Everyone else has been deployed in a hoard found yesterday in Cardiff, and won’t be available for at least a month.” He turned away like it was a foregone conclusion.

“Excuse me.” She leapt to her feet and darted after him, biting back her shrill tone. She knew he read the papers; knew that that was where she got the loathsome scar on her arm. “After the war, it’s hardly appropriate for me to be going alone.”

He turned to give her a piercing look. “Are you not up to it?”

“I am. I just think I should-”

_A chaperone would be proper._

“- at least have a chaperone.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, like they were tucked up inside her mouth waiting to spring out. She raised her chin. 

Her manager’s expression hardened. “We’ve been very accommodating for you.”

Hermione felt her knuckles turning white. 

She had initially applied for this job under a false name, so that she’d only be hired on her own merits. Not once had she let any of her personal problems - the intrusive thoughts while she tried to work in the field, the exhaustion she woke up to every morning, the shaking hands - affect her work as an arithmancer excavating artifacts in the field. It was meticulous how carefully she managed the symptoms. 

The fact that she had foolishly told them at the beginning about the nightmares of the Battle of Hogwarts, or the internalised blood supremacy that whispered in her ear, or her reliance on Dreamless sleep-

It hardly precluded her from working. And they didn’t even know the half of it.

She did _not_ have this job from favours. 

“I’ll organise it. I’ll correspond with the Auror’s office.”

“Fine.” He said, waving his hand. “You’re required there by noon.”

“Noon,” she said softly. If she didn’t school her tone of voice, she’d have screeched at him. “I’ll be there at noon.”

Her heart thumped heavy in her chest. It was fear, she was sure of it. Thrumming fear.

* * *

She’d spent at least fifteen minutes before noon in the bathroom, staring at her reflection.

_Why does my hair act so wild?_

_Why must Ministry uniforms be so plain?_

Hermione forced herself out, collecting her tools satchel from her work desk and sweeping down the stairs to the Ministry fireplaces with determination. Guilty consciences should _not_ slide into fawning self-consciousness. She was simply performing diagnostic analysis spells on the site and nothing more today. All she needed to be was competent, and quick, and comprehensive. And to keep away from Lucius Malfoy’s hateful stare that somehow struck self-loathing into her guts. 

Narcissa Malfoy's death wasn't her fault. She had squared away her guilty conscience by supporting Lucius Malfoy's parole. 

Beside the floo, a despondent Auror bounced his foot. Hermione had to ask - to _really_ ask - the Auror’s office before they would give her a chaperone. 

“Hermione Granger,” she introduced himself, but he barely nodded and passed her the powder. 

Hermione steeled herself. 

This was going to be fine. Get in, go to the artifact site (it was in the garden, apparently, from new renovations), cast diagnostics, and get out. Her wand was sitting like heavy reassurance in her hand. She was going nowhere near the drawing room where Bellatrix Lestrange’s shrieks had bounced off the window panes, where she was tortured.

“Malfoy Manor,” she enunciated, and stepped in.

Her plan crumbled into the wind immediately.

It wouldn’t look that way to the Auror that landed after her, Hermione was sure. There was total stillness in the cavernous receiving room.

It was the solitary vase of peonies on the antique table that rooted her to the spot.

A sheer wave of intense focus came over her when she looked at the flowers, and she couldn’t pull her eyes away. They _meant_ something. Soft, delicate pink petals cupped into tender bulbs. They must have been cut recently - that must mean that-

_He’s put them out for me._

Hermione‘s stomach swooped. 

“Good evening, Miss,” a house elf squeaked from her feet. “Kipsy will be showing Miss to the site in the garden today.”

Her attention drifted down briefly to the house elf, then back to the flowers. “Thank you, house elf.”

‘House elf’? She had a name, Hermione thought distantly.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” the Auror drawled, gesturing to the floo. Hermione looked at him for a beat, blinking twice. If she wasn’t so stunned, she would have protested he attend as a chaperone-

_-terrible, brutish men, Aurors are -_

-but soon enough, Kipsy ( _Kipsy_ , not ‘house elf’) was leading her out past marble floors, through looming antique doors and out into the gardens to the site of excavation where they found the artifacts. Peacocks blinked at them from a nearby hedge. Sprawling lawns stretched out into a forest in the distance. Before her, the corner of a stone figure peeped out from the dirt site, framed by immaculate gardens. 

Peonies swayed gently around her..

She stood breathless with Kipsy beside her. The bubbling anxiety in her stomach - the one she was absolutely sure would bloom into full panic at Malfoy Manor - had settled into calm serenity. The muscles in her neck had unravelled the furious tension that had plagued her for at least two years, and her shoulders relaxed so completely that Hermione heard herself release a long breath. The crawling hum of anxiety that had stuck to her skin for two years dissolved in the afternoon sun, and graduated into a gentle sense of relief. 

Hermione stared, unseeing, at the open dirt site in front of her. 

Standing on the lawn, she felt like she could collapse straight into sleep from exhaustion - usually something she’d only manage sipping Dreamless Sleep in bed over a book. The thought of casting diagnostic spells and assessing the site slipped away like pixies in the wind, and she barely noticed her satchel slip off her shoulder and clunk onto the ground.

Sit. 

She should sit for a moment and get her bearings. 

She wasn’t in a rush. It would just look like she was inspecting the artifact. The house elf wouldn’t mind ( _why would it?_ ). One knee began to bend-

“Careful, now,” a deep voice hummed beside her ear. 

A long hand slid to her waist, seeping warmth through her robe and onto her skin. The feather light touch of another hand against her elbow walled her in, and she faintly turned on the spot.

Lucius Malfoy stared his cool gaze down at Hermione, hands still held in the air on either side of her, his shoulders casting a cool shadow over her. 

_Lucius. You look so well._

“How familiar of you,” Hermione distantly heard herself say. Her ears roared, and she stared at his lips in faint shock. He was so close she could see a faint, silver scar that flecked the skin above his mouth. So close she could see the texture of his fine robes.

_Please, please don’t hate me._

His long hair rippled slightly as a cool breeze pulled itself across the gardens, and a peacock called out in the distance. He tilted his head, and Hermione felt trepidation twisting in her chest. 

Like _she_ was something for _him_ to decide.

“How wonderful to see you again,” he said simply. 

Warmth pooled low in her stomach and something behind her navel twisted. She stepped back. This was not good. 

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile, and his eyes crinkled gently. 

She fled, leaving her tools lying in the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for following along - updates on Fridays or Saturdays! 
> 
> I treasure your thoughts, comments and kudos as always. Sometimes? I read them when I can't sleep. 💖💖
> 
> If you like this kind of thing, and have an idea for a oneshot Death Eater darkfic, send it to me [at my tumblr here!](https://small-miriam.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

_Hermione’s fingertips drive into her thighs. In the dark, fingers have curled around her underwear, knuckles bending, while she scrunches her eyes shut. Smooth hair slides across the pillow as she turns her head away._

_“Such a sweet, obedient girl for me.”_

_They are alone together in the room this time, and her legs are longer - feet almost reaching the foot of the bed. Clammy fingertips are prodding, cold and dry while they probe in the night, and she balls her fists under the sheets. It’s dignified rage, now, that simmers quietly._

_Then-_

_The dark bedroom fades away. A new room, one bathed in sunlight from high window panes, dissolves into view. Gone are the fingers, replaced by-_

_Hermione drops her head back._

_Delicious, slick swirling between her legs robs her of breath. It’s warm, and soft against her sex and curls a tightness in her belly that demands absolute attention. Her heart sings in her chest as a frisson of goosebumps swoops down her legs._

_“My love,” Hermione gasps up at the ceiling arches. “Wait.”_

_She reaches forward, knitting fingertips into soft, long hair, but the massaging rhythm becomes firm. Insistent._

_She’s panting, now, and pushes herself up to gaze down with attention. Between her legs, grey eyes stare back from a curtain of blonde hair, the corners crinkling in amusement. A shudder of twitching threatens to snap clean into climax, and her feet slide down his back, trying to push him back, to slow him, but an arm loops around her thigh and pins her close with a possessive grip._

_“Wait-!”_

-Hermione woke toppling into orgasm. 

Her toes curled into sheets and blood roared in her ears. Waves of pleasure rippled through her while she sucked in air, and she squirmed her thighs together on nothing but themselves. Slowly, as her senses crept back in pieces, she realised the keening sounds in the room were her own whimpers.

This was becoming _untenable._

The ceiling of Grimmauld Place stooped over her, air cold and oppressively still. As she lay panting, she slid her hand to the cold side of the bed, and a chasm of grief opened in her chest.

For a sick moment, she thought she saw plasterwork above. 

\--------------

Hermione yanked her hand through her coils. She was usually never late for work, but had only managed to snatch a few hours again after the early morning sun streamed through her bedroom window.

Good grief.

While she pulled her robes on and rubbed the lines under her eyes, her mind flicked through how she would explain to her manager why she left Malfoy Manor early on Friday. Through the whole weekend it had nibbled on the edge of her attention. Her work satchel was nowhere to be found, and she froze on the spot when she realised it would still be at the Manor. 

Probably still outside on the dirt, even, knowing his regard for her. 

“How wonderful to see you again,” he’d said. She was so disoriented she barely remembered the words.

What elite _sarcasm_ that must have been.

She had failed to provide even basic first aid to his dying wife, even after she’d saved Harry’s life at the foot of Lord Voldemort. 

Hermione kept the obituary in her bedside table, not able to look at it, not able to throw it away. Ginny had given her a hug when she noticed it clipped out of the Daily Prophet three days after the final battle. Narcissa’s long hair and smile in the photograph saw nobody but the inside of a draw and the occasional Dreamless Sleep potion, now. 

Fatigue pounded in Hermione’s ears. She needed more Dreamless Sleep urgently. So she could sleep - not just dream, and dream, and _dream-_

“Good morning.”

“Harry.” She snapped around. 

In the doorway, he looked like he was just about to head out, with his Auror’s uniform and work shoes. “Sorry to scare you.” He gulped the last of a cup of tea down, and Kreacher snatched away the empty mug. Hesitation flicked across his face. “They said not to say anything. But your manager was at the Aurors office over the weekend asking about you.”

“Me?” She said quietly. Her belly dropped.

“Well, your chaperone from Malfoy Manor noticed you were a bit out of sorts.” His hand on the doorframe fidgeted at the wood. “...They were asking if you were bad enough that they needed a Ministry Legilimens to assess you.”

The air was sucked out of the room. 

That was the absolute _worst_ case scenario. 

Ministry Legilimens weren’t allowed to be mind healers - weren’t allowed to be anything except for forensic aides and forcible treatment. They would see and hear _everything._ Dreams. Thoughts. 

The incessant compulsion to get Lucius Malfoy paroled, if only to make the thoughts be _quiet_. She could even be institutionalised. 

Hermione felt her ears burning, heard her own breath in her ears. “That’s _unheard of_. I haven’t even been handling artifacts for the past month. There’s nothing that could possibly be interfering with me.”

“I told them they were being unfair. The war was hard on all of us.” Harry pulled his hand through his hair. Downstairs, Kreacher sounded like he was trying to do the dishes again. Harry looked back at Hermione. “Ginny and I took ages to find ourselves a healthy normal again. You deserve that too.”

She felt breathless, picked at the hem of her work robes. Out the window, muggles walked by on the streets, totally unaware, and she felt like one of them. Totally oblivious under observation.

_I am no filthy muggle._

She was still in enough shock that the thought simply rolled off her back. When she turned back to ask what the Ministry was asking about specifically, the doorway behind her was empty.

\-------------

“Saint Mungo’s has sent someone to chaperone you today.”

Hermione placed her quill down at her desk carefully. Her manager had come back to check on her, alone in the office, and she’d expected a confrontation. Not the sudden offer for more observation.

“I won’t be needing a chaperone, thank you.”

_Which will seem improper._

He came over to her desk and crossed his arms. “Miss Granger. People heal in their own time, some more than others.” He seemed to deliberate. “We’re two long years out from the war-“

“People can take longer than two years to recover-“

“-and your friends have done very well to adjust to peacetime. Think of the chaperone as extra support, to make sure that it isn’t anything more nefarious from artifacts.”

Hermione’s mouth opened then closed. “ There isn’t anything wrong with me, sir. That was the first time I’ve returned to Malfoy Manor since being tortured by Bella.”

He narrowed his eyes. “ _Bella_.”

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Hermione corrected.

He looked up over her head. Hermione peered around, glad that the desks around them in the office sat empty. The artifact hoard in Cardiff was demanding, by all accounts, and everyone was happy to be out in the field and working in a newly discovered archaeological site. 

Everyone except for her. 

“If everyone in the Ministry went home early for the day because of events in the war, we’d have a difficult time maintaining any deadlines,” her manager said eventually. He turned away from her to retrieve a letter from the owl clicking its beak at the windowsill. Below the window, one of the antique vases from the office was filled with peonies. 

_I have his attention._

The thought made her throat catch. Her hand touched the side of her neck as she slowly stared at them, blush petals catching the sunlight. Her own pulse bounced against her fingertips.

“Where are the flowers from?” Hermione heard herself ask. It sounded far away. 

He followed her gaze to the flowers, then turned back to his letter. “They came with a donation. The Saint Mungo’s healer will be meeting you at the floo, Miss Granger. I apologise, but the chaperone wasn’t an offer.”

_\---------------------_

While she made her way down the Ministry stairs, Hermione’s ears hummed in stress. 

She was being dissected on every front. The Saint Mungo’s healer would be observing her. The Ministry was turning over social contacts to determine if something nefarious was happening in her head. 

She shouldn’t have supported Lucius Malfoy’s parole.

“Miss Granger.” The healer at the Ministry stairwell gave her a thin smile. Taller than the Auror, with flat, brown eyes. At least she knew he was realistically going to be reporting on her. His robes hissed on the ministry tiles behind him when he led them both to the floo. 

Keep control, she said to herself. She leaped through the fireplace.

When her shoes hit the floors of the Malfoy Manor receiving room again, the same urgest as last time flooded over her. A desperate urge to rest; to go to sleep, _finally_. She forced her gaze to fix on the doorway, to ignore the vase of flowers placed again in the room that snatched at her attention.

It was _imperative_ she maintained control.

The house elf lead them through the cavernous rooms again. Her eyes firmly focused on grey seams that roped through the marble floors underfoot. When she flicked her attention upwards, the ceilings did not have plasterwork. 

A small relief.

With the healer flat on her toes, they made their way out to the open dirt site in the gardens once more, and she found a small outdoor table had been placed alongside it, her bag laid out. The healer stood silently to one side.

This could be done. Professionally. She forced herself to kneeled for a moment, to get a closer look.

“I see you found the tools.”

Hermione twisted around to look over her shoulder. “Mr Malfoy.” 

He stood some paces away, hands clasped behind his back with a cool gaze fixed on her. She couldn’t tell if he had a haughty expression looking down his nose at her or if it couldn’t be helped because of his height. 

She stood again, dusting the dirt from her robes. His brief look of distaste at the gesture flickered away as soon as it appeared.

“Miss Granger.” 

_-between her legs, grey eyes crinkled in amusement-_

“I,” Hermione started, “would appreciate some space around the decommissioning site, Mr Malfoy.”

He raised one brow. “I will not interfere with the Ministry’s works here.” Hermione got the faint sensation he was holding his tongue, and the corner of his mouth faintly hardened at the end of his sentence. He made no effort to move; his robes hanging loosely down from his shoulders.

_Something is making him impatient._

Suddenly, a rush of cool pins and needles struck her back. Panic flooded her, and a numbing sensation ripped through her body. Her vision faded away-

-and came to again with her face pressed against the grass. She gasped and pulled at her wand arm, but it was pinned below her body, unresponsive and sluggish. She could barely move her toes. Her eyes flicked to Mr Malfoy as he stood impassively, searching him desperately.

_Lucius, what are you doing!_

A bright prickling pain shot through the crook of her elbow, and a figure stooping over her pulled their wand back. She turned away, tried to yank at her arm, but it barely twitched. Heaviness crept up her neck, scooping around her scalp and she felt totally still.

A breeze rustled the gardens and hedges alongside them.

A quiet moment stretched out.

“Will that be sufficient?”

“I believe so, sir.”

The voices were both deep, both melted together in the fog that seemed to settle around her. Hermione felt the world swivel. Or had she been moved? She hung in the air for a moment, felt herself levitating, until-

A soft pillow pressed against the side of her face a moment, and she was rolled gently to her back. 

“Open, now. Open.”

_Lucius._

Her eyes wobbled open, seeking the comfort of his grey stare. Instead, brown eyes swept across her field of sight, piercing into her and swallowing her vision. A sharp headache twinged for a moment and she flinched back, but her eyelids were pressed open again by a cool finger-

_-fingertips are prodding, cold and dry-_

_Unhand me!_

“...You were correct, sir.”

“Truly.” Lucius’ voice was breathless at her side. A grip on her shoulder tightened, and a warm hand slid at her waist, pulling her up gently. “My dove. My dove, look here.”

_My dove._

A flood of warmth spread out through her chest. She couldn’t rouse herself; was so tired. Her head was a lead weight that rolled to the side, and she felt warmth against her cheek. A memory danced through her mind: sliding her feet down warm fabric, curling her toes into the shirt on his back, of rolling her hips against his mouth and being utterly _coveted._

Before she fell unconscious - through the haze of exhaustion and relief - a flicker of fear licked at the edges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk I can see Luc giving good head u know?
> 
> Kudos and comments always very welcome 
> 
> (shoutout to the lurkers too 💖 )


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Lucius Malfoy loves his wife and despises mudbloods.
> 
> Please heed the tags - from here onwards, this is where the worst ones begin to apply.

_“You dare raise your wand at me—?”_

_“You dare trespass on your own blood?”_

_Standing in the candlelight, clad only in her nightgown, her wand doesn’t waver. The hex sits on the tip of her tongue with prickling rage, and she is tall enough now that she can stare her loathing eye to eye, chin held high. He narrows his eyes and skirts his glance around the bedroom._

_But in a flash his wand slides out, cuts through the air, and she thumps to the ground in coiled bindings and unmitigated, quiet rage. She doesn’t lower herself to struggle, but when he kicks her wand under the bed a flood of fury tightens her belly._

_“Trespass?” He scoffs softly. He bends down over her and pushes a blade of blonde hair behind her ear, and his knuckly hand lingers. “The mere_ allegation _will see you ruined.”_

_Her nostrils flare involuntarily and she stares past him, up at the plasterwork that looms indifferently over her. At the vase of peonies on her vanity that watches on._

_She had to—_

—“Do you remember me?” 

The voice behind her was soft - careful with its consonants but unmistakably gentle. She heard him but didn’t listen, couldn’t shake her attention from the flowers perched in a vase before her, that had seemed so crucial only moments ago. Wait. When did she get up? Wasn’t she lying down earlier?

“Remember our family?”

His voice was close beside her ear, and the air shifted from his breath. A hand touched her side, and she frowned for a moment, gazing up. Above her, the ceiling was smooth. No plasterwork. The vase dragged at her attention again. “You sent flowers, once… Peonies.”

He kissed the back of her head, and she felt his breath on her scalp. “It was all you could permit.”

Glancing down, she was suspicious to find bloody marks on the crook of her elbow, stinging and fresh. “I’ve been interfered with.”

“I need to understand what has happened to you, my dove.”

The words, spoken into her hair, filtered through like water seeping through earth - slowly and muddied - until a wariness caught her in her throat. She turned around to see Lucius standing over her, and he slid his hands around her shoulders. The intensity of his searching stare felt like it was stripping her back; like he _knew_. 

“You aren’t well. You need to sit.”

“ _Why_ aren’t I well?”

All the sound she could hear in the room - was it a bedroom? - was her own breathing. Lucius Malfoy was like a stone wall in front of her, perfectly composed and imposing, and she sensed she was on a knife’s edge. If only she could cut through the fog. 

“I’ve done something reprehensible, Lucius.” She put her hand on her sternum to still her breath. “I know it.”

He slid a hand up below her jaw, brushed her gently with his thumb, as his eyes flicked down at her mouth. “You did everything right. You secured our family’s safety when I couldn’t see how, but you need to rest now.”

Something about the word ‘safety’ broke the fugue laying heavy across her, and her mind sharpened. Yes, she felt well-rested, and there was no longer that humming feeling of ill ease at the disgusting house of Grimmauld Place - or the terror of sleeping alone. Instead, another fear flickered below the surface. 

_What if he finds out?_

_The shame of it._

Suddenly, Lucius’ sheer height felt imposing over her. Everything in combination - the shift in her surroundings, the confusion, the bloody marks on the crook of her arm - felt dizzying. Her hand found a dark coil of hair across her shoulder, and she tugged at it; stretched it out with wariness. 

_Is my father here?_

The thought made her swallow. “I... need some fresh air.”

Stress held her shoulders tight as the seconds ticked by between them, and Lucius’ mouth almost imperceptibly hardened. Outside, a peacock called in the distance. 

Suddenly, he cut through the air with a wand, and she was lashed with magical bindings against the wall. Her nervousness flared into a rage that flushed her face. 

“How _dare_ you!” she spat indignantly, not deigning to struggle. Lucius’s wand wavered, and a flash of hesitation rippled across his face.

_(“You dare raise your wand—?”)_

The fire of fury kept her breath steady, as the rack of her ribs pressed against the magical bindings. She glared with unashamed hostility at him, and panted against the lashings. Revenge would have to be calculated, would have to be careful - but the last person to bind her suffered for it ten-fold.

Wait - the last time?

Hesitation flitted through her own expression. No - she couldn’t recall being bound. 

She—

Hermione hadn’t been bound - she’d been _tortured_ here at Malfoy Manor, been scarred by a madwoman, had fled with Harry and Ron. And then she had been forced to come back here for work. Harry and Ginny and their words of concern flooded back to her, and Hermione’s gaze snapped back to Lucius Malfoy standing with a wand raised level at her. She’d come here as an _arithmancer_ , a ministry worker, and now-

_Now-_

She was fucked. 

He studied her carefully, and her belly tightened. 

“Don't do this,” Hermione said, chest rising and falling against the bindings. He’d been kind only moments ago; if she didn’t tip the scales, if she could calm him, she could manage to make her way to the fireplace and get _out_. She swallowed. “Please, Mr Malfoy.”

He narrowed his eyes, and his knuckles around his wand turned ghostly white. 

“My wife is _dead_.”

Hermione froze as the guilt struck her in the chest. He slid his free hand into her hair and _squeezed_ \- so hard that her eyes watered, and she yelped out.

“She is dead from your actions.” He said coldly, driving his wand into her neck. “And you will not _ever_ keep her from me.”

“Mr Malfoy,” Hermione gasped, mustering as much control of her voice as possible, and his expression became increasingly dangerous. “Let me down, _please_. You are paroled. You are _not_ permitted a wand on house arrest. The Ministry knows my location here, and if you—”

Behind them, the door opened, and the healer stepped through with a neutral expression as Mr Malfoy released his agonising grip on her hair.

“Sir—“ Hermione shouted, but the man cut her off with an abrupt _Silencio_. 

She stared at him in shock as he walked to Mr Malfoy, and her stomach curdled. As the two men started to speak she found that the ringing in her ears drowned out anything except for the _thump thump thump_ battering away in her chest, and panic choked her.

She was alone. It was a trap; she should have never used a chaperone organised for her, and now she’d pay for the mistake with her life. Her eyes snapped around the room for any sign of her wand, or her work satchel, but there was _nothing_. 

Panic shredded through her.

The bindings cut hard into her arms, around her legs, and twisting against them was bruising and futile. Her chest couldn’t even heave in a proper gasp of air, but she tried anyway with short, sharp heaves. She was going to die, or be tortured, or _worse_ \- and if he had the means to cover it up with the healer to corroborate, nothing would make him hesitate to exact revenge on his wife’s death.

Hermione started to hyperventilate silently. The images in her head - of plasterwork, of peonies, of being bound in candlelight- flitted by in an nauseating swirl. Narcissa Malfoy’s obituary swam up into her mind, and it struck terror into her. 

“...will be an imperfect solution for now. The potion master informs me it is an inversion of sleepwalking potions, sir. It still sedates, but will solicit sleepwalking, rather than suppress it.”

A golden potion clinked against Mr Malfoy’s ring as he grasped it. “And the duration?”

“It will waver across twelve hours. A more suitable, long term solution will take some time to develop.” The man passed Lucius a parchment which he looked over for a moment. Tears of terror welled up in her eyes as she looked on through heaving breaths. “The referral to have her committed is a formality, sir. She can be moved as required.”

“With discretion,” Mr Malfoy replied. He stepped over to Hermione, and ran his hand across the slope of her shoulder with a shuttered expression. She yanked away, pulled her head to the side. “Some preparations will be necessary.”

When the healer turned to her and raised his wand, she soundlessly shrieked at him to _stop_ , until her vocal cords stung-

And then nothing.

————————-

_“Narcissa!” Someone screams, but she continues. “Stop at once!“_

_She sucks in air, wipes the blood on her brow, and some slithers down into her eyes._

_It stings, but she continues._

————————

_Hermione._

Her eyes slid out of focus; ignored the hum of the room around her. Almost as if the noises had to bounce around the mouth of a cave before they reached her ears, they seemed far away, and lacked importance. She was sitting on something soft, but her attention drifted back towards the warm numbness that held her close. Its comfort was more than mere warmth - it made her feel awake; alive.

Green eyes peered out at her.

_Hermione._

It’s a far away thought that kept coming back, like a nagging elf that was tugging at her, or an ocean pulling her down, suppressing her. She swallowed and tried to hold on, before the thought came back again.

_Hermione_.

She thought... 

“Hermione.” 

She blinked, and her eyes slid into focus. 

“Harry?”

“You’re not well,” Harry said, sitting beside her bed with a magazine in his lap. Looking down, she wore a scratchy, thin cotton gown that was a hideous teal colour ( _disgusting, get it_ off). Harry reached out and grasped her shoulder, but she grimaced from his hand _._ “You’ve had a work accident. You’re being sedated for now at Saint Mungo’s.”

She frowned as a feeling of restlessness pattered in the back of her mind. “I need to go.”

He smiled and nodded. “You keep saying that, yeah.”

“I…” Her frown slunk into a scowl. “I think…”

“You’ve done something wrong?” He finished. “Yeah, you’ve been saying that, too.”

“No,” she said curtly. “I’ve been assaulted.”

He paused for a moment, and seemed to bite the corner of his cheek. “Saint Mungo’s said they’ve found dark magic on you from artifacts - hexes for hallucinations and paranoid thoughts.” Outside the room, heels clacked by on the floors, and voices murmured low in the hallway. “Does that sound… have you been having those symptoms at home, Hermione?”

Thoughts. 

She’d been having intrusive thoughts, yes, and nightmares. But the thoughts at the Manor had been crippling in their strength. Had slipped into her head, even into her speech without her realising - as if she was mumbling in that space between falling asleep and dreaming. They felt natural, and flowing, and almost relaxing to finally let _out_. But with no artifacts on her desk at work, she strained to think of what could possibly have aggravated the thoughts. 

Hermione gritted her teeth. 

She was Hermione Granger. Logical to a fault, if nothing else.

And if she _had_ been contaminated with a dark artifact - one with an accumulative effect, or a long latent period - the intrusive thoughts hadn’t been her own fault. They would not have reflected her failure to move on from the war. 

“I thought I’d been assaulted.” She whispered. “I thought- that my chaperone from Saint Mungo’s helped Lucius Malfoy assault me and bind me to the wall.”

Harry’s brow crinkled. “The chaperone got you here as soon as he could. It seems like he might have saved you from a lot of further damage.” 

She felt quiet. She’d had intrusive thoughts for so long, she’d just assumed they were her own fault; that she’d be forcibly committed to treatment and reprimanded for not taking precautions. 

Maybe it was from her apprenticeship a couple of years ago. Saint Mungo’s had been so eager to treat her thoughts as internalised blood supremacy and poor mental adjustment from the war, that maybe they’d just missed it too.

She might even be able to keep her job when they were finished. She dragged a hand over her temple. She’d need a copy of her treatment plan. 

“Hey,” Harry said, trying to lighten the mood with a small smile. “You’d think a Malfoy would do much worse than bind you to a wall. Even in a hallucination.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.” She swallowed and looked around the walls - teal colours, bright and assaulting to the senses. At least not the dated Grimmauld Place wallpaper. She put her face in her hands; drove the heels of her palms into her eyes. It had felt so _real._

“Hermione,” Harry said, tugging a hand away from her face. “They’re being extremely thorough. You’ve been in and out of it for a day, now--”

“A _day_?”

“--and by the looks of things they’re not leaving any stones unturned. Your lead consultant has half a dozen owls ducking into his window every hour, it looks like...”

But the tail end of the sentence sounded garbled, tinny almost, and her vision tunneled far away again. Warm numbness shimmered back up, pulling her further into herself, and she fell backwards on the bed. “I’m…”

The ceiling high above was smooth. No plasterwork hung over her. No humiliating witness to her family shame. 

Someone chuckled beside her, as her eyes slid closed, and there was a crinkling of a magazine opening. 

“I’m just here. Your sedation comes in waves. You’ll be back soon.”

\-------------------

And she was. 

The sensations were gentle - distant and unobtrusive. A hand in her own. Another on the nape of her back, lingering and warm. Bare feet pressed against vinyl floors while she was hurried. At one point, a hand reached out and tugged a few strands of hair from her head, but she hardly flinched. 

The lights had been lowered to a soft glow, and she found herself beside a fireplace, hushed conversation floating around her.

“For nights, at the very least.“

“Of course, sir.”

Then there was the ashy soot of leaping across a fireplace, and she landed in gentle candlelight flickering in the dark. Eventually she found herself in a bedroom with a generous fire lighting the room. The only problem, she thought, was the dreadful itching of the awful, cheap robes against her skin, so when her fingers found the pathetic clasp behind her neck, she shrugged the cotton off. The night air was cool. 

“Here.”

She blinked. Before her, Lucius lowered a single, glinting blonde hair into a glass potion vial, and it swirled to a pale gold. She narrowed her eyes briefly; even a child knew not to take strange potions. 

“What is it?”

He held it out to her. “From a lock of hair on our wedding day.” 

“Our wedding.” She blinked in surprise, and combed through her memories. There was almost nothing. As if she lived on a solitary island in time, with a vast, greedy void that devoured her past. Yet she felt no instinct to cover her nudity. 

"To make you feel more yourself again."

“We…” She said, and a flicker of him between her legs flashed in her mind. She looked at him, across his robes, and shoulders, and limbs, reaching out for familiarity. “Have we…?”

“With one another?” He said softly, his eyes greedy. “Yes.” 

When she swallowed the potion, it tasted of exotic honey. Writhing and wriggling sensations swooped down across her skin - she snapped a hand to her neck in shock, and looked down to see coils of her dark hair across her shoulder that shrugged and elongated into straight, fair strands. Her limbs lengthened, and she gained several inches of height. 

“My love,” Lucius breathed. “Look at me.”

She didn’t. 

She turned, pacing slowly across the room, over rugs and past dark furniture that cast flickering shadows in the night, and over to the vase once again. She was determined to slice through the fugue that kept cutting away at her memories, at clumps of time. 

“What was this vase to me, Lucius?” 

There was a quiet rustle of shifting robes behind her as she danced her eyes across the vase, and she took a long moment to search for any memory of it. Nothing. 

She reached out to touch the peonies standing in the vase, but a hand snapped out and clasped around her own.

“I wouldn’t. It will portkey you to the study.”

The length of his arm against her own felt warm, and a bare arm snaked around her waist from behind, and pulled her into shocking, naked warmth behind her. 

Her breath hitched.

“Don't turn your mind to it. Come,” his heavy voice murmured at her ear, so close she could hear the _texture_ of it in his throat, in his mouth, and then he guided her gently - walking her back and kissing her slowly, stroking the curve of her spine with his fingertips. 

As if he were laying his mark under gentle touch.

When she was pressed onto the bed, Lucius knelt before her, hands sliding up her thighs, and a spark of fear flared.

“No,” she said, instinctively pushing his hands away.

( _-cold, clammy knuckles, probing-_ )

“I have not _ever_ handled you in that manner with my hands.” Lucius said softly, eyes piercing her as he settled his hands gently on her waist, thumbs stroking gently across her skin. “Nor will I.”

Relief barely had time to register before his searing hot mouth pressed against the rise of her mons, his tongue slipping down and curling against her, and it sent a jolt up her spine. The sudden obliteration of her senses left her reduced down to a gasping, needing, squirming creature beneath his slow, writhing tongue. 

Her hands fisted the sheets as her hips involuntarily rocked against his mouth, and the molten feel of slippery swirling between her legs ripped her breath away. A hot sigh of air rolled across her as he groaned, pinning her close as she kicked out.

It was the destruction of thought - the stuttering and shuddering of pleasure that stripped away fear and peonies and vases - as he massaged his slick tongue over and over the apex of her sex with hungry, precise intent. 

“Lucius,” she gasped, and threaded her hand into his hair, gazing down in breathless reverence. His thumbs stroked the slope of her waist. She was reduced to bucking and gasping beneath his curtain of blonde hair, and the greedy pressure of his mouth forced frissons of pleasure to seize tighter and tighter at her core, until--

With a keening cry, she came with her feet squirming and sliding up and down his back, rocking her hips urgently under his mouth, as she felt _adored, coveted, devoured-_

Her ears rang in time to her heartbeat, to the aching twitching between her legs, and a hot flush bloomed across her chest. Before she could gather her thoughts, flattened hands slid up her forearms and clasped her trembling hands gently. Lucius bowed his head to her neck, pooling his blonde hair against her cheek, and he lay across her like a cage.

The broad expanse of his bare skin on hers was warm and shocking. 

“Grief had strangled me,” he whispered into her neck. "You have done so well, _so well,_ to return to me." 

He pulled her close, his sparse chest hair tracing against her belly. 

Hermione blinked at the canopy. 

Lucius Malfoy’s _chest hair._

Careful, hot prodding between her legs sunk into her, and it struck her in dawning terror.

“I—"

“ _Oh_ , my dove.” 

Hermione whimpered as he slid deep, and it was burning hot and slippery, rocking gently deep inside. She tried to move, but her hands were pinned hard beneath his own grasp, and as her mind scrambled to make sense of the sensations, the languid thrusts started to become longer. He moaned into the crook of her neck, his face buried against her body. The longing in his voice - the hot panting at her ear - swooped a chill of fear across her body. 

Lucius Malfoy’s _cock_ was driving into her body, and Hermione recoiled in horror. The muscles inside her oscillated between the final twitches of her climax and the desperation of trying to keep it _out_. 

He was going to kill her.

Once he was done, he was going to kill her.

_No, no, no-_

Hermione began to hyperventilate as the sound of sliding flesh and desperate laving at her neck wove together a lewd cacophony. Felt his cock twitching inside her body, where it nudged against the end of her as he pumped his hips.

“I—" 

She could barely breathe. 

Her legs kicked out, but he was driving into her with urgency, moaning and huffing into her hair. He dropped his enormous weight down onto her, crushing her ribs, and groaned long and hard, stuttering his hips in quick stabs.

The seizing panic as Hermione realised he was climaxing - Lucius Malfoy was _climaxing into her_ \- toppled her terror over the edge. Her panicked gasps became shorter, forcing black spots into her vision, and as she writhed beneath him - as she felt him slip out of her, and hot wetness slide out after him - the last thing she saw was-

Grey, staring eyes, cutting deep into her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading along! Comments and kudos are always gratefully received ❤️


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